That was the principle on which Interstellar Merchant Service worked. Value for money; but the value was strictly subjective. A pound of solid gold was utterly useless to a Danneroian; a revolving mirror had real value.
And so to pay for their thorium with gold was absurd, but they would dig their hearts out for mirrors. No one was being cheated in such an arrangement.
The China Coast touched down at the base clearing on Danneroi in mid-afternoon on April 25, 2412, Galactic Standard Calendar. In his thirty years, Lidman had obviously worked steadily on improving the landing facilities at his trading post. A broad concrete landing area three thousand feet square had been cleared away in the heart of the jungle; Lidman broadcast a landing-signal and the China Coast made a perfect touchdown, square in the middle of the area.
A gong sounded within the ship, letting Garth know the landing had been successful. He was the only passenger, though there were eight crewmen, three to handle the complicated subwarp space transitions and the other five as cargo handlers.
He snapped off the nullgrav shield that had protected him during the period of deceleration and made his way out of the ship.
Although he had been in the Merchant Service five years, he had never failed to experience that tingling moment of anticipation just before he stepped out onto the soil of a new world, under an alien sun.
Danneroi was a Plus Point Two world; that meant that its similarity to Earth was rated at 1.2. Any planet with a rating between .5 and 2.5 was considered Earthtype; beyond that, special skills were necessary for survival, and Garth was not eligible for work on such worlds yet. He stepped from the ship.
Two natives were ready to help him as he made his way down the short catwalk from the exit hatch. Although Garth had studied up on the world, he stared closely at the aliens, feeling as always the impact of realizing once again that the universe was full of strange life-forms, many of them potentially able to reach Earth’s own level of civilization one day.
The Danneroians were humanoid beings. They stood shoulder-high to Garth’s six-foot height. Their bodies were slim and symmetrical, their limbs tapering, their fingers slightly webbed. Danneroi was a watery world, and these beings looked like good swimmers, streamlined for speed. They had no hair anywhere on their bluish-purple bodies, and they wore only loincloths.
There was a vaguely oriental slant to their eyes, caused by a fold of flesh that probably protected them under water.
In a soft throaty voice the alien to his left said, “You are Boss Garth?”
“That’s right.” Garth was a little startled to find the aliens speaking English, though on second thought he considered that in his thirty years on Danneroi Lidman had probably taught many of them the language.
“Boss Lidman is waiting for you down there,” the other alien said. “We will take you to him.”
Garth nodded and looked around. The sun, high overhead, was veiled by murky gray clouds, but the air was hot nonetheless. The section of Danneroi chosen for the trading post was tropical in climate.
Other parts, according to the survey report Garth had been given, ranged all the way up to better than 200 degrees in temperature, and the lakes bubbled and steamed. Here the average temperature was more manageable: a steady muggy 85-100.
Garth was used to hot worlds. His second assignment, Dwylliar, had had a mean temperature of 110. But that had been dry heat, desert heat. He wondered how he was going to like the humidity here.
Lidman seemed to have done a good job of building up the station. There was a large prefab at the edge of the landing field that was undoubtedly the trading post itself; next to it were three smaller blockhouses that looked as if they had been built by local labor.
The jungle had been trimmed back, and Garth saw wide roads extending radially out from the trading post area into the jungle.
Whatever sins Lidman might have fallen into lately, he had certainly done a competent job of setting up the trading outpost. Garth immediately felt less bitter toward the man. He respected competence.
And his enthusiasm for the Merchant Service was fired anew by what he saw here. It was, after all, a creative job: to carve from raw jungle a landing area, to build roads, teach the natives, establish trade relations, win their confidence and their trust. Lidman seemed to have done an excellent job. If only he hadn’t spoiled it by breaking regulations—
Garth’s reflections were interrupted. A short, stocky man was coming toward him from the trading post building a few hundred yards away.
Garth studied him closely. He was a man in his late sixties, perhaps even early seventies, but he looked rugged and capable. He wore only shorts and a tropical helmet, and his body was still muscular, lean, tanned. Only when you looked at his face could you see the inroads of age. His hair, cropped close to his head, had whitened—even his eyebrows. His face was deeply lined, his thin lips drawn downward in a probably perpetual scowl. And his eyes—they were almost depressing in their sadness, Garth thought. They were deep, sharp, brooding eyes. The eyes of a man who has lived a long time, and who has worked hard.
The eyes, thought Garth, of a man who has done wrong and who knows it.
Extending his hand, Garth said, “You must be Anton Lidman.”
Lidman ignored the hand. In a harsh, almost rasping voice he said, “Of course I am. Who the hell are you, youngster?”
Garth had to struggle to keep his voice calm as he said, “My name is Dave Garth. Didn’t the company tell you I was coming?”
“Let’s see your credentials.”
Silently Garth took his papers out and passed them over to the older man. He was surprised by the gruffness of his welcome, but as he thought it over he realized it was only to be expected. Thirty years of solitude, thirty years alone on this hothouse planet might do things to anybody’s temper.
Lidman flipped rapidly through the papers and handed them back. He had hardly looked at them: it was obvious that he simply was demonstrating his irritability by demanding them.
Lidman stepped back and sized Garth up. “So you’re my new assistant, eh? How old are you?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“I was thirty-five when they sent me out here. That was back in ’81. You weren’t even alive in ’81, were you? Maybe your parents weren’t even married then. And all that time while you were being born and growing up and joining the company, I’ve been out here on Danneroi.” Lidman’s wiry-face contorted bitterly. “Hell with all that. What’s your previous experience?”
“Five years in outworld service,” Garth said. “Nuril, Dwylliar, Cosgrove, and Lorphar. I was Routing Assistant for a year and a half on Lorphar before I was assigned here.”
Lidman grunted. “Okay, Garth. You’re officially welcomed to Danneroi. Damned if I know why the central office thinks this planet needs a two-man station, but as long as you’re here I’ll find some work for you. Can you swim?”
“Fairly well.”
“You’ll get plenty of practice here. The natives are great ones for swimming.” Lidman abruptly started to walk away. “You go amuse yourself for a while. I have to supervise the cargo transfer.”
He stumped away across the field, leaving Garth standing alone. Over by the ship, unloading was taking place; the ship’s cargo of trinkets and gewgaws was being carried into the nearest blockhouse. When that was done, the three-month accumulation of thorium would be loaded aboard, and the China Coast would blast off for the Sorgal System.
Garth wandered downfield to the trading-post. It was a two-story building; a couple of natives lounged out in front, dozing in the hot afternoon sun. Garth estimated the temperature at close to 100, and the humidity was in the same region.
A moist haze seemed to hang over everything on this planet. Droning blue-eyed flies the size of small birds whizzed through the muggy air. The jungle ringed the trading-post in; the sight of a spaceship out there on the landing-field was strikingly incongruous on this primitive world.
Garth glanced uneasily
toward the bordering jungle. On a tropical world like this, it was expectable that unpleasant animals lurked out there. He didn’t intend to venture into that jungle any more often than his work required him to.
The unloading job took twenty minutes, loading half an hour more. It was late afternoon by the time the clear-the-field signal shrilled out and the China Coast rose upward on its rocket boosters. Garth stood on the porch of the trading outpost and watched the ship depart. Moments later he heard footsteps, and Anton Lidman appeared, followed by a few of the natives who had helped out in the unloading job.
Lidman said, “Usually the shipmen stick around for a day or two, but they were in a hurry this time. Damnably tight schedule, or something. Well, come on, Garth. I’ll show you where you’ll stay.”
As Garth reached for his luggage, Lidman quickly stepped in front of him to block the gesture. The older man said, “The natives can take care of that, Garth. They enjoy helping out that way. Don’t spoil their pleasure.”
Garth shrugged and followed Lidman up the stairs of the trading post building, with two natives following behind with his luggage. On the upper story, Lidman turned off to his left and indicated a small room with a cot and a rickety dresser in it.
“This is your place,” Lidman said.
Garth nodded He hadn’t expected luxury, not on a world that had been a one-man station for so long. Lidman handed him a spraygun and said, “This is for the bugs. Give the place a good spraying every morning when you get up, and at night when you sack out. Don’t trust the houseboy to do the job: unless you like bugs crawling around your room, take care of it yourself.”
“Right.”
“Toilet facilities are down the hall. My room is all the way down there to the right. Downstairs is strictly for business. I’ll brief you on your duties in the morning. No sense bothering now.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Couple more things. You bring a hat with you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Make sure you wear it all the time. The cloud blanket is pretty thick on this planet, but the sun comes through it stronger than hell anyway, and a day running around bareheaded can kill you. Second thing is, meals are on time round here. I have a native cook who’s pretty good. If you have any allergies or stuff like that, talk to her about it. Any other questions?”
Garth tightened. “Yes, sir. In case of accident—where are the medical supplies kept?”
Lidman’s eyes seemed to narrow a little, as if in suspicion. “For various reasons which may become plain to you later, I keep the medical stores under lock and key. If you need anything, come to me.”
“Suppose you’re not around?”
“I’ll be around, Mr. Garth. Don’t worry about that. Clear?”
The next few days were busy ones for Garth. He installed himself in his little room, began the job of getting himself accustomed to the perpetually muggy climate, and hid very carefully the small subradio transmitter he had been given for filing his secret reports. His room door did not lock, so it was necessary for him to hide the transmitter with great care indeed.
Lidman, as head of the outpost, had his own transmitter, but Garth was under orders to file his reports secretly, and that meant not using the base radio. He hid the tiny device under his discarded overcoat. The second day he discovered that his room had been searched, and he wondered whether Lidman had discovered the transmitter.
He settled into the routine of life on Danneroi. At first sleeping was difficult; the planet had five moons, and at least one of them was full at all times, so bright light streamed into his room every night, making sleeping even harder than it normally would have been in such a climate.
He found the food passable. As in most tropical societies, it consisted mostly of fresh vegetables prepared with hot sauces; meat, when it was served, was served newly-killed, since refrigeration was a problem.
Garth found the Danneroi style of cooking reasonably to his liking. It was obvious that Lidman had long since adjusted his palate to it and genuinely enjoyed the food.
The activities of the trading post consisted mostly of negotiating for thorium. A rigid set of values had been worked out, so many gimcracks and gadgets for so much thorium, and it was important never to vary this relationship. Most of the aliens, though, preferred to haggle; this took time.
Thorium was not the only export Danneroi had, though. Lidman revealed that with each pickup ship came several orders from zoos or research biologists of various galactic worlds for specimens, live or otherwise, of Danneroian flora and fauna.
This required special teamwork; over the years, Lidman had trained a corps of hunters who brought back the necessary animal, alive or dead as required, and who crated it for pickup by the next ship.
Each morning Lidman conducted classes in English for the natives. These were widely attended; some natives came from thirty and forty miles away, setting out at dawn each day to attend.
The trading post was a busy place. And, so far as Garth could tell in his first few days, Lidman was doing a perfectly adequate job of running it. The old man was crotchety and irritable, but that could be pardoned, considering that he had spent the last thirty years with no company but that of naked aliens. All things considered, he was doing an excellent job, however. And that puzzled Garth.
One of the prime rules of the Interstellar Merchant Service was that no drug or intoxicating beverage not native to a planet be distributed there. Interstellar trade in narcotics and liquor was strictly forbidden. Lidman knew that as well as anyone else.
Yet word had reached Earth at last that Lidman was breaking that regulation. It made no sense to Garth. If it were so, why would an intelligent and capable man like Lidman ruin his good record by violating interstellar law?
Garth didn’t have any answer for that. He was beginning to doubt that Lidman actually was committing the violation charged. After all, he had no evidence.
Not until the fourth day.
Garth rose that day at dawn, when the first warmth of the sun burst into his room. He had slept better the night before than on the previous three.
Since the trading post’s plumbing facilities were decidedly on the primitive side, Garth had to go outside for his morning shower. Years ago, Lidman had rigged an outdoor shower behind the building, and each morning just before dawn one of the natives fetched fresh water for the use of the Earthmen. Garth had an audience of five or six curious aliens while he showered. The fact did not disturb him; modesty was unnecessary on a planet whose total Terran population consisted of two males.
Lidman had long since been up, showered, and dressed. He grunted his morning greeting as Garth entered the small dining alcove for breakfast. When the meal was finished, Garth was given his morning assignment: straightening out the files of pickup vouchers over the past year. Lidman explained that he had been too busy to file the papers away properly. “Can’t be troubled with all that damned paperwork when real work has to be done,” he muttered.
Shrugging, Garth set to the task and worked most of the morning at it. Around eleven, he wearied of the routine and meaningless job, and decided to go outside and stretch his legs a little.
The sun was rising toward noonday heat. Garth, like Lidman, wore only shorts and sun-helmet now, and his body, which had grown pale during his stay on cool Lorphar, now was rapidly tanning. He stood in front of the trading-post, glancing round, listening to the animal-trumpetings coming from the jungle.
As he stood there a native came from the interior of the building, excused himself, and walked past Garth. The Earthman noticed a small white tube in the alien’s hand. A flicker of recognition and surprise ran through him. He called to the alien.
“Come over here.”
“You want me, Boss Garth?”
Garth recognized the alien as one of the trading post’s own laborers, part of a domestic corps of nine or ten who weeded the grounds, tidied up indoors, cleaned and prepared the food, and generally helped out.
“You’re Khalimuru, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Boss.”
The alien’s voice was soft, liquid-sounding. He was no more than five feet three or so, and he looked up trustingly at Garth. These people are like children, Garth thought.
“Khalimuru, what’s that in your hand?”
“Boss Lidman give it to me.”
“I didn’t ask you that. What is it?”
“Makes good dreams,” the alien said.
Garth felt a tingle of confirmation. “Can I look at it?”
“You give it back to me after?”
“Of course.”
The alien surrendered the tube. Garth looked at it. It was a tube of neopriozone, a useful drug in a tropical climate. Its chief use was as an antipyretic, a febrifuge for tropical diseases. It could also be used to reduce pain.
“What do you do with this stuff?” Garth asked.
“Drink it. Little at a time. Gives me good dreams. Boss Lidman let me have it when I work hard.”
Garth scowled. The rumors were true, then: unbelievable as it seemed, Lidman was distributing drugs to the natives. He held the little capsule thoughtfully, wondering just what action he should take.
“Does Boss Lidman give much of this stuff away?”
“He give plenty. Been doing a long time. You let me have it back now?”
Garth glanced at the capsule in his hand. Was it right to return it to the native, knowing what it was? he wondered. Then he decided it would hardly do further harm to hand the drug over. He gave it back. The alien nodded thankfully and scampered away.
Watching him go, Garth realized he was biting hard on his own lip. It was his duty to report old Lidman, now. He would have to notify Earth, and after thirty years in the Merchant Service Lidman would be relieved in disgrace. Why was the old man doing something like this? Why?
Another thought struck Garth. With Lidman removed, the Danneroi post was his, now. He would be all alone, in charge of the entire operation on this hothouse world. He realized it was a big responsibility.